Lethal(93)

That thought brought Honor’s mental meandering to a complete standstill, and she experienced a jarring realization.

“Oh, God.” It was a whimper, spoken in the quietness, spoken from the heart.

Suddenly flying into motion, she pushed open the car door and scrambled out. She stumbled over debris in her path as she made her way toward the door of the garage. It took all her strength to push the heavy door along its unoiled track far enough to create a space that she could squeeze through, which she did, not even considering what dangers might be lurking beyond that door.

She paused for only a second to get her bearings, then struck out in a dead run in the direction of the railroad tracks.

Why hadn’t she realized it before now? Coburn’s instructions to her had been a farewell. He didn’t expect to return from this meeting with VanAllen, and in his own untutored and unsentimental way, he had been telling her goodbye.

He’d said all along that he didn’t expect to survive, and tonight he’d gone in her place, probably sacrificing himself to save her.

But his thinking was flawed. No one was going to shoot her. If The Bookkeeper believed she had something that would incriminate him, she wouldn’t be killed until he had discovered what that something was and had taken possession of it.

She was indispensable to the criminals the same way she was to Coburn, and Hamilton, and to the Department of Justice. What The Bookkeeper perceived her to know or to have was as good as a bulletproof vest.

But Coburn had no such protection.

She was his protection.





Chapter 35





Coburn?”

Coburn pressed the pistol more firmly against VanAllen’s neck. “Pleased to meet you.”

“I was expecting Mrs. Gillette.”

“She couldn’t make it.”

“Is she all right?”

“She’s fine. Just tied up at the moment.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be. I’m just letting you and the sharpshooters who’ve got me in their night vision sights know that if they kill me, Mrs. Gillette and the kid will stay perpetually lost.”

VanAllen gave a small shake of his head. “You made yourself clear to Hamilton, who made himself clear to me. There aren’t any sharpshooters.”

“Tell me another one.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Wireless mike? Are you talking for the benefit of everybody out there listening in?”

“No. You can search me if you don’t believe me.”

Coburn deftly stepped around VanAllen, but kept his pistol aimed at his head. When he came face-to-face with the man, he sized him up. Desk jockey. Unsure. Out of his league.

Threat to him, next to nil.

Dirty or clean? Coburn would guess he was honest, because he appeared not to have either the guts or the cunning to be on the take.

Which is why Coburn believed the man truly didn’t know about the sniper on the water tower over Coburn’s left shoulder at seven o’clock. Or the one in the caboose window at four o’clock. Or the one he’d spotted on the roof of the apartment complex three blocks away.

That shooter would have to be extremely good, and the angle was lousy, but it could be done, and after blowing Coburn’s head off, the bastard would have all the time in the world to get away.

Either VanAllen was really good at playing dumb, or he truly was in the dark, which was even more alarming.

“Where are Mrs. Gillette and the child?” he asked. “They’re my chief concern.”

“Mine, too. Which is why I’m here and she’s not.” Coburn lowered the pistol to his side.

VanAllen followed the motion, looking relieved that he was no longer staring into the bore. “You didn’t trust me?”

“No.”

“What reason have I given you not to?”

“None. I’d just hate to leave you out.”

“You mistrust everybody.”

“A life-preserving policy.”

VanAllen nervously wet his lips. “You can trust me, Mr. Coburn. I don’t want this fouled up any more than you do. Is Mrs. Gillette all right?”

“Yes, and I want to make damn certain she stays that way.”

“You believe she’s in danger?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Because she has incriminating information on The Bookkeeper?”

On the outside chance that VanAllen had lied about wearing a wireless mike, Coburn wasn’t about to answer that question. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to order the local P.D. to call off the manhunt for me. Like you, I’m an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation in performance of my duty. I can’t have a bunch of trigger-happy yokels on my ass.”

“Crawford isn’t going to shrug off eight murders.”

“Homicide detective?”

“For the sheriff’s office. He’s investigating Fred Hawkins’s murder. He sort of inherited the warehouse murders when Fred—”

“I get the picture,” Coburn said, cutting him off. “Talk this Crawford into granting me a reprieve until I can bring Mrs. Gillette in safely. Then I’ll thoroughly brief him on the warehouse shootings and Fred Hawkins.”